A Treasure Worth Keeping
Marie Patrick
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2013 by Donna Warner
Previously published by F+W Media
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by AmazonEncore, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonEncore are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
eISBN: 9781503973596
This title was previously published by F+W Media; this version has been reproduced from F+W Media archive files.
To my critique partners, Lexi and Ann, who are definitely treasures worth keeping; to my son, who continues to inspire me every day; and to my husband, my hero—this journey wouldn’t be nearly as much fun without you.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
About the Author
Sneak Peek: One Day’s Loving
Chapter 1
Charleston—1850
Music, raucous laughter, and light spilled onto the street as soon as Tristan Youngblood, captain of the Adventurer, opened the door of the Salty Dog. He stood still for a moment and let the atmosphere of his favorite tavern in Charleston wash over him.
The Adventurer’s crew filled the room with the exception of Coop, who stood watch aboard ship, and Jemmy, Tristan’s son, who was too young to join in the celebration. A more trustworthy, patient, experienced group of men he’d never find. He loved and respected them all, found comfort in their company, and trusted them with his life—and his secret. To the world, he was Captain Trey, treasure hunter. To those who shared his confidence, he was Tristan Youngblood, Lord Ravensley.
They had reason to celebrate this night, even if he did not. After months and months of searching, they’d found the legendary lost treasure of the Sierra Magdalena, a Spanish galleon savagely torn apart in a hurricane almost two hundred years ago off the coast of Hispaniola. Each and every one of them thought they had found heaven—or at least a little part of it.
Pockets bulging with pieces of gold, they turned, almost as one, and raised their tankards toward him. “Captain!”
“Tippy.” He signaled the tavern owner. “Drinks are on me.”
Loud cheers met his pronouncement as Tippy lined up clean tankards on the bar and proceeded to fill them one by one with thick, foamy ale.
Tristan accepted his crew’s slaps on the back and handshakes as he made his way through the crowded room to drop a small pouch of gold coins on the bar.
Graham Alcott, the Adventurer’s navigator as well as Tristan’s second in command and oldest friend, sat at a table in the corner, his arms around the two winsome barmaids perched on his knees. A cigar smoldered in the brass tray surrounded by the remains of a hearty meal.
Tristan grinned as he strode toward his friend. It never failed. No matter where in the world the Adventurer put into port, Graham found the loveliest, most willing ladies.
He cleared his throat. Graham took his eyes off the tantalizing bosoms presented to him and glanced up. His smile could have charmed the birds from the trees—or the drawers from even the most discerning young woman.
“Tristan,” Graham acknowledged as he nodded to the chair opposite him. “Sarah, my love, get the captain a glass of your finest rum.” He gave each girl a sound kiss on the cheek and a promise to meet them later, then he patted both behinds to usher them off his knees. With squeals and giggles, the women rushed to do his bidding.
Tristan dropped into the chair and stretched out his long, leather-booted legs, crossing them at the ankle. He grabbed a serrated knife and cut a piece of bread still warm from the oven, then slathered it with sweet, creamy butter and took a bite.
“Well?” Graham prodded as Sarah delivered two heavy-bottomed glasses and placed them on the table. Tristan grinned as Graham’s merry brown eyes followed the gentle sway of her hips.
“Well what?” Tristan replied after he swallowed.
“Don’t play games, Tristan.” Graham rested his elbows on the table. “I’ve known you too long. I was there when Tippy gave you the letter. I know the family seal when I see it. Was it your father? Is he here?”
Tristan stared at the light amber brew in his glass as he chewed the last of his bread. “No, my father isn’t here. He sent his henchman, the honorable Theodore Gilchrist, Esquire. If we’d made port in Jamaica, I would have met Paul Farnsworth, another in my father’s employ. Apparently, Father has all my regular haunts covered. The earl was bound and determined to give me the news.” The information Mr. Gilchrist imparted made his stomach churn, made the bile rise in his throat, made him want to disregard convention and lose himself on the high seas. Brown eyes twinkling with curiosity, Graham sat up straighter. “What news?”
Tristan pulled a half-smoked cigar from his vest pocket and used the candle on the table to light it. As he exhaled, blue-grey smoke swirled to the ceiling. “I have a little less than four months to put my affairs in order, go back to England and then—”
“Then what?” Graham lifted his glass and took a long drink.
“I am to be married.”
“Married!” The navigator choked on his rum as he spit out the word. He coughed into his hand, his face red. For a long time, he stared and said nothing. “I would offer congratulations, but I gather you don’t regard this as good news.”
Tristan twisted the signet ring on his finger while he looked around the room—at the hunk of bread on a plate in the middle of the table, at the cigar smoke drifting around him—anywhere but at his shipmate. “No, I do not.” He stopped twisting the ring long enough to rake his fingers through his hair; then he picked up his drink.
“You can’t be surprised.” Graham leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. His black-booted foot rested on the empty chair next to him. “Your father has been trying to marry you off for the past five years. Every time you go home, he introduces you to another eligible young woman. Perhaps he sees this arrangement as the way to get the deed accomplished.”
Tristan tossed back the rum as if it were water and ignored the burning sting the liquor left in his throat before he gave voice to his concerns. “God help me, I don’t want a marriage like my parents’. They barely tolerated each other before my mother passed.”
He twisted the ring on his finger and caught the glitter of the lion’s amber eye. “There was never any love between them. I doubt there was even fondness.” He lowered his voice. “My father has had the same mistress since before I was born and my mother . . . my mother went through lovers like . . . well, like you and I go through bottles of rum.”
Sarah sashayed to the table and refilled both glasses. Tristan nodded his thanks but didn’t offer her a smile, as was his wont. The news of his impending marriage settled like a rock in his stomach.
“Was your parents’ marriage arr
anged?” Graham swept his tongue over his lips in anticipation then reached for his refilled glass.
“Of course. It’s the way it’s done.” Tristan let his breath whistle between his teeth and crushed his cigar in the tray, frustrated by his father’s announcement. “I don’t want to marry a woman I don’t know, have never met. I believe—”
“But you don’t have to, Tristan. You’re an adult. Almost thirty. Tell your father no.”
Tristan snorted. “If it were that easy, I would. You don’t understand. Your parents met, fell in love, and married, the way I would like to, but . . . marriage is expected.” He lowered his voice to a whisper though he doubted his words could be overheard in a room full of laughing men and women. “For a man of my position. As the next Earl of Winterbourne, I have an obligation to make the most advantageous match, which means marry for money to fill the family coffers and produce future earls. And as my father’s solicitor informed me, though my younger brother and his wife have been married for nine years, there are no children from the union.” He rubbed his fingers over his freshly shaved face and found he missed the beard he’d grown during his last voyage. “Father wants heirs.”
“You jest.”
“I wish I did.”
Graham leaned back in his chair and studied the liquor in his glass. A smile crossed his face after a moment. “What about Jemmy?”
Tristan shrugged. “Father doesn’t know the adoption papers have become final, but I don’t think he would accept Rielle’s son as his heir. She was my friend and I loved her as such, but Jemmy isn’t of Youngblood . . . blood.”
The navigator nodded, and Tristan knew he understood more than his spoken words. Graham shook his head. “No more treasure hunting. No more sailing around the world at a moment’s whim. No more getting stinking drunk and spending our time with willing women.” He grinned to reveal a compliment of pearl white teeth beneath his shaggy beard. “I pity you, my friend.”
“Four months,” Tristan repeated, his tone and mood somber until an idea grabbed hold and wouldn’t let go.
Izzy’s Fortune. If he could find the infamous treasure of Queen Isabella, he could fill the Youngblood coffers with more than enough gold to last several lifetimes. He wouldn’t have to marry a woman he didn’t know, wouldn’t have to spend the rest of his life with a woman he didn’t want. He could have the time he needed to find what he wanted most.
Love.
Passion.
A woman who could share his dreams.
Who am I trying to fool? There is no such woman.
But Izzy’s Fortune. That, at least, had a chance of being real.
And if he found the treasure before Wynton Entwhistle of the Explorer, so much the better. An open rivalry existed between the two men and had from the moment they met some years ago when they’d both gone after the same fortune. Since then, Tristan had managed to stay one step ahead of the scheming seaman, much to Entwhistle’s regret and frustration.
Tristan glanced at Graham, smiled, then started to chuckle. “Four months is long enough to try one last time to find Izzy’s Fortune.” His gaze darted around the room to the crew in the midst of their merriment. “Do you think they’d mind?”
“Hell, no!” Graham slammed his glass on the table. “When do we leave?”
“Three days. No, four. We’ll need that long to gather supplies. Once we leave Charleston, I don’t plan on coming back—at least for a long time. Remember, I’m expected in England to—” Tristan choked on the word “—marry.”
“Again, you have my pity.” Graham laughed. “Who is this woman? Is she at least pleasant to look at?” He waved his hands in front of his face as his grin grew wider. “She isn’t some ugly beast with rotten teeth and pitted skin, is she?”
“I have no idea. I didn’t even ask her name.” Tristan wasn’t surprised he had not asked a most important question. He supposed the announcement that his marriage had been arranged without his knowledge or consent had shocked him into not thinking at all. “I should find out, shouldn’t I?” He tossed back his drink in one swallow. “I’ll pay another visit to Gilchrist in the morning, but in the meantime, I’m going back to the ship.” He stood and flipped a gold coin on the table. “I’ll relieve Coop so he can celebrate with his mates.”
“Are you certain?” Graham rose as well, although he never released the glass of rum in his hand, nor did he take his gaze from Sarah MacNamara and Rosie Flint. “I could just as easily take the watch.”
Tristan shook his head. “No, you stay.” He glanced at Sarah wending her way through the tavern’s rowdy customers. Her hips rocked back and forth as she sidestepped with innate agility the various hands aiming for her backside. She met his stare and grinned. “Sarah and Rosie would be disappointed if you didn’t keep your promises.”
Tristan made his way through the men, and again accepted their congratulations and well wishes before he handed another small leather bag filled with gold to the barkeep. He saluted his crew. “Drink up, me hearties! You’ve earned it.” He resisted the urge to tell them to keep their eyes, as well as their hands, on their gold.
“Aye, Cap’n!”
His men would be in sad shape tomorrow, sporting colossal headaches, perhaps still drunk from this night’s revelry, so he gave them a reprieve. “I expect you all to be onboard the Adventurer in two days.”
Again, their rousing chorus of “Aye, Cap’n” met his ears.
He grinned as he pushed through the door and left the deafening din of the Salty Dog. A senseless whistle escaped him as he strode over the cobblestones toward the three-masted clipper at berth.
His shoulders relaxed as his stride grew longer. He inhaled and caught the scent of a hearty beef stew as it simmered in someone’s pot. Warm light spilled through the windows of the homes he passed and he heard the telltale sounds of people settling in for the evening.
He loved harbor towns—the charming, quaint villages of England, the rowdy, yet oddly cosmopolitan ports like Charleston, the rough and tumble atmosphere of Port Royal. The sight of the ships from all around the world lined up side by side, their colorful flags waving in the breeze, comforted him as nothing else ever could. He would miss these ports when he obeyed his father’s command and married the woman the earl had chosen—a woman whose name he didn’t even know.
Beneath the glow of a street lamp, he stopped and shook his head.
An arranged marriage. God, he hated the thought.
Shoulders tight once again, he kicked at a rock on the cobblestones and scowled. The earl had given him no choice.
If the truth were known, Tristan didn’t object to the idea of marriage—he just hated the idea of being coerced into it, forced to give up the life he loved.
Part of it was his own fault. All the years he’d searched for treasure, he could have and should have searched for a wife. He could have remained in England and attended the debutante balls where most of the eligible bachelors of his class chose their future wives from the best families.
But marriage and the responsibilities of the earldom wasn’t the life he wanted.
The sea called to him, lured him, begged him to feel its power and glory. From the moment he’d first stepped foot on a ship, he’d known he wanted to sail for the rest of his life. The warmth of a woman’s hand on his cheek could not compare to the cool touch of spindrift on his face. The tedium of running the Winterbourne estates could never measure up to the exhilaration of riding out a storm on the high seas while the sky raged around him. In those moments, Tristan knew he truly lived.
He glanced up as he drew closer to the Adventurer. A shadow passed before the windows of his cabin, back and forth, as if someone waited for him with great impatience. It couldn’t have been Jemmy. The boy had been fast asleep when Tristan had left to see his father’s solicitor.
It wasn’t Coop Milliron, either. His faithful crewman paced the length of the deck from bow to stern, his footsteps heavy on the wooden planks. They grew louder in the
still night when he climbed the stairs to the quarterdeck. Moonbeams lit his path. He had no need of a lantern to guide his way.
Tristan studied the shadow and grinned. The silhouette belonged to a woman—he couldn’t deny the full thrust of her breasts or the long skirt that twitched with her step. His grin widened, but only for a moment.
Who was she? What was she doing aboard his ship?
There could be two reasons a woman would be on his ship at this time of night. Either she was a strumpet . . . or a thief.
If she was looking for the spoils from the Sierra Magdalena, she’d wasted her time. Though it was common knowledge in Charleston that he and his crew had found the treasure, only a fool would have kept it on board. Tristan had never been a fool.
The other alternative pleased him much more. If she was looking for a night of pleasure, well then, she’d come to the right man.
Tristan quickened his step and bounded up the gangplank. Cooper jumped, startled, and pulled his cutlass from the sash around his waist in one easy, practiced move. The sharp blade glinted in the moonlight.
“Coop!” Tristan raised his hands and sidestepped the weapon.
“Cap’n, ye scairt the hell outta me!” The crewman lowered the cutlass and shoved it back into his sash then patted the handle for good measure. He stood as tall as his short stature would allow which made the white cotton of his shirt strain against the roundness of his belly. “Doncha be knowin’ not to sneak up on a man? Coulda got yerself killed!”
“Who is the woman in my cabin?”
“She dinna give me her name, Cap’n. She been waitin’ on ye fer pert near a hour.” His grin spread from ear to ear then faded as his bushy eyebrows disappeared beneath the red kerchief tied around his forehead. Tufts of dark brown hair, peppered with grey, spiked around the square of cloth on his head. In the moon’s glow, his cheeks were ruddier than normal and his bulbous nose, a result of years of heavy drinking, shined like a beacon in the middle of his face. “Were ye not expectin’ her?”
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